


take the wild ones, they're my favourites

by Rhovanel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Romance, all aboard the zevwarden trash train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 16:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9911717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhovanel/pseuds/Rhovanel
Summary: He wonders what it might be like to have enough faith in a future to plan for it. It is a luxury he has never been able to afford.





	

**1.**

At their first meeting, she gives him his life.

He isn’t sure he wants it, exactly, but survival has always been what he does best. He’s good with his hands and with his mouth, and when one fails him, the other takes over.

So he talks. It isn’t the first time he’s talked himself out from the wrong end of a sword, and he suspects it won’t be the last. He knows just how to play this gambit. He weaves together dashes of his past for sympathy and strategic information for practicality, combined with just enough flirtation to pique her interest.

The Warden’s expression remains stony while he talks, but her eyes never leave his face. When she agrees to take him with her, the other Warden explodes incredulously.

He looks between the two of them as they argue, the small dark elf and the tall broad human, so alike to the ghosts he has fled, and thinks that the Maker has a strange sense of humour.

*******

He quickly identifies a niche for himself within the party. The Warden is serious and quiet, and her gaze is troubled. She spends much of her time in the evenings talking with her companions, coaxing out information about their past and dealing with their worries and complaints. They rarely return the favour, he thinks.

So he takes up a position at her back. He tells her stories of his time with the Crows and of the city of Antiva. He keeps his voice light and musical, if only to give them all some respite from Alistair and Morrigan’s endless sniping.

She begins to offer stories of her clan and life as a Dalish elf in return. They trade tales while they walk in the day and during their shared watches at night. It is not quite camaraderie - they are both too aware of her power over his continued existence - but it is a bond, nonetheless.

They fight well together. She moves with a spirited rage, spinning elegantly and rapidly as she twirls her twin knives through the air. He matches his movements to hers, cutting down the enemies that approach her so she can continue her attacks. It is a twisting dance they perform together, and he knows they would move well together in a more intimate kind of battle.

For the time being, he settles with stealing as many smiles as he can. She may have given him his life, but he has always been a thief.

 

 

**2.**

In the Brecillian Forest, she gives him her respect.

He teases her mercilessly as they traipse through the forest. She stops to collect every single plant she can forage, until her pack is heavy with them.

‘Are we making a bouquet for the darkspawn?’ He walks directly behind her, in their usual configuration, followed by Wynne and Alistair bringing up the rear. He knows that she and Alistair have likely decided to keep as many eyes on him as possible. Of course, if he wanted to stab the Warden in the back he would simply do it, but he lets them have their security.

Besides, it does give him a most excellent view.

‘I’m collecting resources for the Dalish,’ she responds. ‘Our clans always need whatever healing herbs we can forage. I’m out here anyway, so I may as well do the job.’

‘But surely you are now too important for such tasks, no?’

Her spine stiffens. ‘I am Dalish. I will always be Dalish.’

Like all Dalish, she carries her identity with an infuriating amount of pride. He wonders, though, whether she clings to it because it’s the only thing left after the rest of her life has fallen out from under her.

‘But is it not so tremendously dull?’

‘How can you say that, Zevran?’ She gestures around her. ‘There is such life in the world. Don’t you enjoy seeing what it has to offer you?’

‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘I am very fond of living, I think you know that. I like taking the pleasures it gives me.’

‘Hmmm. I suppose you mean sex and shiny trinkets?’

‘Sex, of course. But shiny trinkets?’ He repeats with a smirk. ‘Well, I suppose I am a Crow.’

‘I don’t know, Zevran.’ She turns to look at him. ‘Are you?’

He meets her gaze but says nothing.

She turns and continues up the path, and they walk for a few minutes in silence before she speaks again. ’You know, if you’re so bored with my rustic Dalish ways, why don’t you go and speak to Wynne?’

‘No, I cannot. I am, as you say, enjoying seeing what the world has to offer me. Right now it is offering me a very fine pair of hips.’

She groans and rolls her eyes at him, but he sees the smile at the corner of her lips before she bends down to pluck yet another elfroot.

*******

After the business with the werewolves, they return briefly to the Dalish camp for a night before heading back out. The Warden sits eagerly by the campfire to listen to the storyteller Sarel, inviting her companions to join her. Wynne and Alistair sit on the logs, both looking slightly out of place. Zevran lounges at the Warden’s feet. He knows she’s unlikely to come to any harm here, surrounded by her fellow Dalish. But he’s so used to his place at her back that it feels wrong, somehow, to leave her without his body between her and the world.

And he does love the look of annoyance on Alistair’s face as he possessively moves himself into the Warden’s space.

His mind drifts during Sarel’s stories, lulled by the soft flickering of the fire and the rhythms of the storyteller’s voice. He comes back to himself suddenly when he feels the Warden’s fingers in his hair.

‘What are you doing?’ he whispers.

She bends down so she can speak quietly into his ear. ‘I used to braid the children’s hair during evening tales. It feels strange to not be doing something with my hands while I listen.’

‘Ah, well you are in for a treat, then. A young nobleman once told me that I had the finest hair in all of Thedas. Like spun gold, he said.’

She snorts. ’Yes, yes, it’s very nice. Now stop moving your head and let me work.’

He’s soothed by the Warden’s gentle touch. He could weave her hair into a thousand grand styles, from Antiva to Orlais, but he suspects that she would not appreciate it. He had overheard one of her conversations with Leiliana, in which she had explained that she preferred to keep her hair in the Dalish style. She may fight with a weapon in both hands, he thinks, but she wields her Dalish pride like a shield.

His thoughts are interrupted by the Warden’s voice. ‘This is a traditional Dalish warrior style. It’s designed to keep your hair out of your face and to make sure that enemies can’t grab hold of it during combat.’

He can feel her braiding his hair into a knot at the back of his head.

‘But this is not how you wear your hair?’

She pauses briefly before continuing her work. ‘No. You don’t wear a warrior’s knot until you have earned it.’

A million questions race through his mind. ‘But - ’

She tugs sharply on a braid and he almost bites his tongue. ‘I will wear the knot when my clan approves.’

‘But why -

She tugs again and he mutters a curse. ‘The first time you wear the knot, someone else must braid it for you. Someone else must recognise your courage, your strength, and your principles. And you must be willing to be patient and graceful under the attentions of another. Something that you, might I add,’ she says, pushing his head down so she can reach the hair at his nape, ‘are currently failing miserably at. Stop moving.’

‘I believe you have mistaken me for someone else,’ he says. ‘Perhaps you should be braiding Alistair’s hair? He would look very pretty, I’m sure.’

‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘You’ve told me of your life, Zevran. You don’t become the person you are with the history you have without a great deal of resilience and determination. I mean it.’

An image of Rinna flashes through his mind, and he swallows down his shame.

She smoothes her hands across his head. ‘And no, I think Alistair would look rather strange with braids.’

She pats him on the shoulders. ‘All done. Turn around so I can see.’

He turns slowly so she can admire her handiwork. ‘Well? Am I a dashing Dalish warrior now?’

She gapes at him and he can see a faint blush on her cheeks. ‘Very nice,’ she mumbles. She can’t quite look him in the eyes.

Interesting, he thinks.

He reaches out a hand for her face, aiming to fix her gaze on him, but before he can touch her there’s a commotion as Sarel finishes the story. The moment disappears and she leaps to her feet, practically fleeing to the other side of the campfire.

Later that night, when he is sure the rest of his companions are sleeping, he pulls out the small mirror he carries amongst his other tools of the trade. She’s weaved two braids on either side of his face, but thicker and higher than his normal style. He can’t see the back, of course, but he can feel some kind of elaborate knot. There’s something both feminine and fierce about it, and he finds himself almost transfixed by his reflection.

He wonders if this is how she sees him. He’s worn his fair share of disguises during his time with the Crows, but the dishonesty of this one makes his stomach churn. He unpins the braids slowly. This is not a gift he can accept.

 

 

**3.**

In the Frostback Mountains, she gives him her bed.

He hates the cold, but he refuses to complain.

‘Oh, but Antivan blood cannot be stopped by a little bit of ice! Can you not feel the heat from my skin?’ He turns to Wynne behind him. ‘Would you like to come a little closer to find out?’

Wynne blusters at him all the way up the mountain, but the Warden keeps turning to watch him, her concern evident in the hunch of her shoulders.

When they finally make camp, he volunteers to go with Sten to fetch wood for the fire. He knows it’s an attempt to salvage his pride, and he knows that the Warden will likely see right through it, but he does it anyway. It’s cold and difficult work, and when they return, he’s chilled to the bone.

He’s about to begin the difficult task of pitching his tent with numb fingers when the Warden steps in front of him.

‘No,’ she says. ‘You’re with me tonight.’

‘First watch?’ he asks lightly, trying to keep the dread he feels out of his voice.

‘I’ll take the first watch with Leiliana,’ she says, grabbing him by the elbow and steering him towards her tent, already neatly pitched. ‘You’re going to sleep here.’

A thousand retorts race through his mind, but the Warden holds up a hand before he can open his mouth.

‘I don’t want to hear it, Zev,’ she says firmly. ‘You can spin tales of your Antivan blood all you like, but you won’t fool me. You’re no good to me or to anyone else when you’re frozen to the bone.’

‘My dear Warden,’ he smirks. ‘What a terrible ploy! Truly, I am embarrassed for you, I have seen better attempts at bedroom manoeuvring from clumsy youths. If you want me in your bed, all you have to do is ask.’

She groans and shakes her head. ‘Just get in the tent,’ she says, pushing him firmly in the small of his back before turning sharply on her heels and striding away.

At a loss for what else to do, he opens the flap and steps inside. The first thing he notices are the tanned wolf pelts stacked upon the bedding. He remembers how he’d teased her in the Brecillian Forest. But now, he realises that what he’d dismissed as quaint cultural baggage was as strong a survival instinct as the one he prided himself on. Yet where he lives by the skin of his teeth, stealing the moments and the days as they come, she takes only to give to the future. He wonders what it might be like to have enough faith in a future to plan for it. It is a luxury he has never been able to afford.

He carefully removes his armour and slides into her bed. The thick layer of pelts comfort him immediately, and much to his surprise, he’s asleep in minutes.

He wakes some time later when the Warden returns from her watch. She glances at the lamp he’d unwittingly left burning.

‘You know, sleeping next to a flame is a recipe for disaster.’

‘Ah, so I’ve been told,’ he says. He shifts in the bed and pushes back the furs, quirking his eyebrows at her. ‘Perhaps you would snuff that lamp and find out for yourself?’

She rolls her eyes but says nothing, removing her armour quickly and dousing the light. He feels her approach the bed and slide under the covers. She smells like snow, fresh and sharp.

She’s as cold as snow too, and he hisses and involuntarily jerks away form her.

She chuckles. ‘The great Antivan Crow, brought down by a touch of ice.’

He remembers the question she asked him in the forest. ’I am no Crow any longer, I think.’

She shifts to face him. ‘Zevran, you know you can leave if you want to. I won’t stop you. I didn’t…I didn’t choose any of this, and I won’t ask the same of others.’

‘So tell me, then, why do they follow you?’

She pauses, mulling over her words. ‘They’re all searching for something. Sten for redemption and honour. Alistair for guidance and glory. Wynne for meaning, Leiliana for righteousness, and Morrigan…well, I’m never entirely sure what it is that Morrigan wants.’

‘To murder Alistair when no one is looking, no?’

She laughs in agreement. ’But you…’she trails off. ‘You’re searching for something too, I suspect. I hope you’ll tell me what it is one day. But if you think you can find it somewhere else, you can leave.’

Once again, he’s struck by her ability to image and envisage a future, weaving a world of possibility with a few simple words.

‘I hope you don’t, though. Leave, that is.’ She sighs and turns on her back to stare at the roof of the tent. ‘I’ve seen how you fight. It’s…protective. Of yourself, of course, but also of me. And I…I’m grateful. I know you always have my back.’

She sighs again. ‘I miss my clan. I miss the sight of the stars through the trees and the sound of ripples in the river. But I’m glad you’re here.’

He does not know what to do with the trust she gives him. Sex, he understands. But this strange fragile intimacy is new ground, and he worries he’ll crush it under his hands. Just like the last elf who gave him the gift of trust.

‘Then I will stay,’ he says simply, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her to him. She doesn’t relax into him but she doesn't pull away either.

‘Go to sleep, _lethallin_ ,’ she says, and the term of endearment warms him more than a thousand wolf pelts ever could.

 

 

**4.**

In the Deep Roads, she gives him nightmares.

She doesn’t like being underground, that much is obvious. Her hands never leave her knives, and she paces anxiously, murmuring quietly to herself. He sees his own concern mirrored on Alistair’s face. He tries to lighten her mood by spinning words of light and levity.

‘So many spiders! What ever is attracting them so? Could it be the mating call of our beautiful Morrigan?’

She never smiles.

*******

After she kills the Broodmother, she staggers to her feet, her rage shining out of her face like a beacon. Her anger is the only thing keeping her on her feet as she stumbles over to Alistair.

‘Is this why there are no women amongst the Grey Wardens?’ she rasps hoarsely. ‘Is this what becomes of them when they fall to the Calling at last? Is this what will become of me?’

Alistair looks ashen. ‘I…no, I don’t…Duncan never…’

She shakes her head disgustedly. ‘Of course not,’ she mutters. ‘Victory, vigilance, sacrifice, right? More like secrecy and subterfuge and deceit.’

The silence in the chamber is deafening.

The Warden turns back to Alistair. ’If they take me, you kill me.’ She pulls herself up as tall as she can muster. ‘ _Ma ghilana mir din’an_.’ He doesn’t know what the Dalish words mean, but he can tell they’re significant from the way she stands.

‘You…I don’t…’ Alistair stumbles over his words, refusing to meet her gaze.

‘Promise me!’ she shouts, near hysterical.

He steps in between the two of them, taking both her hands in his.

‘I swear it,’ he says simply. ‘It will be swift and sudden.’

She nods once, squeezing his hands, before turning to stagger away, slumping down against the wall with her head in her hands.

He turns and glares at Alistair.

That night, he can hear her shivering as she lies on her pallet. It’s not cold - there are fires burning and the walls seem to retain heat - so he knows she’s deeply afraid.

He pads quietly over to her and lies down next to her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to his chest. She weeps quietly but deeply, her chest shuddering with every muffled sob. He whispers in her ear in Antivan, combing his fingers through her hair until, weary with exhaustion, she finally sleeps.

*******

When they finally emerge from the Deep Roads, she sinks slowly to her knees in the snow outside Orzammar, staring up at the stars with a look of profound gratitude on her face. She waves Alistair away when he tries to help her up, and the rest of the group continue down the path while she breathes deeply.

He crouches down beside her.

‘Oh, Zevran,’ she says, eyes wide and face alight. ‘Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?’

He looks at the starlight reflected in her dark eyes. ‘No, I have not,’ he says. He stands and holds out a hand to help her up, and when she takes it, he pulls her to him in a single move that pulls her flush against his chest.

She huffs with surprise and raises an eyebrow at him. He strokes both his hands gently down her face, tracing the lines of her vallaslin, before kissing her deeply.

Later that night, they teach each other something about the giving and taking of pleasure.

 

 

**5.**

In Denerim, she gives him a future.

She helps him lay the ghosts of his past to rest, and once again, offers him the chance to leave.

‘I asked you once what you were searching for,’ she says, as they walk back through the dusty streets, still flecked with blood and mud from the battle. ‘Have you found it?’

He sees his life opening out in front of him, filled with freedom and possibilities both exhilarating and frightening.

‘Of a sort,’ he replies. ‘But I think that perhaps I have only just begun the hunt.’

She looks up at him, concern written clearly on her face. ‘So you will leave, then?’

‘Ah, such a horribly final word,’ he says lightly. He wraps his arm around her waist and draws her to him. ‘Surely a good Dalish elf knows that the hunter belongs in a pack.’

She does not belong to him, he knows that. She is already caught between the heavy duty of a Grey Warden and the proud freedom of the Dalish, and one day, she will be pulled away by the dark song of the Calling.

And he knows that if they both survive whatever the Archdemon has in store for them, he has unfinished business in Antiva to deal with. But for the first time in his life, he believes that the future might have just as much pleasure to offer as the present.

‘No, mi amor,’ he says. ‘I go where you go.’

He thought that he was the thief in their relationship, but now he sees that perhaps he has been wrong all along. He has given her his words and his attentions and his body. He would give her his heart, but she stole that from him long ago.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Zevran's line about being confused ever since the Warden first invited him into her tent, which got me thinking about how else that scene might have played out.
> 
> The Dalish phrase the Warden uses means ‘guide me to death’, taken from [here](http://wiki.chroniclesofthedas.com/index.php?title=Dalish:_Lexicon). Everything else about Dalish lives is entirely my own fancy.
> 
> The title is a misheard lyric from The National’s ‘Graceless’. It’s actually ‘take the white ones’, but I originally heard 'wild' and have always liked it as a line.


End file.
